The Ballad Of Golden Boy
by EFAW
Summary: Every superhero has an origin story. This is Golden Boy's. Oneshot. Companion piece.


**Summary:** Every superhero has an origin story. This is Golden Boy's. Oneshot. Companion piece.

 **Warnings:** Superheroes. Superhero-esque violence. Backstory fic.

 **Disclaimer:** I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

 **This story is a companion piece to** _ **The Only Difference Between Villainy And Anti-Heroism Is Press Coverage**_ **. It might not make a lot of sense if you haven't read that one first.**

 _ **The Only Difference**_ **was originally supposed to be a self-contained story, but as these things happen, I got an idea for a small fic from Travis's point of view and had to write it, so here we are.**

 **Title is a play on the song** _ **The Ballad Of Mona Lisa**_ **by Panic! At The Disco.** __

 **OOOO**

 **The Ballad Of Golden Boy**

" _My past made me into the person I am today. There's a reason behind everything I do, say and feel."_

— _Unknown_

 **XXXX**

He's three, and he just wants his car.

It's a super cool car, bright blue plastic with big yellow wheels and red lightning bolts on the side. His mom at his other house gave it to him and it's his most favorite toy ever. And it's stuck under the couch.

Travis lays on his tummy and stretches his arm as far as it can go, but he's just too small—he can't reach. Biting his lip, he toddles to his feet and goes to the kitchen, tugging on his sister's skirt. She's bigger, she can get his car. But his sister just waves her hand at him and keeps talking on the phone and says, "I'll be right there, Trav," which is what she's said lots of times but he wants his car now!

He stomps back into the living room and scowls at the couch. If the couch is the problem, then he'll just have to move the couch, then.

He stands beside the couch and places his little hands on the fabric. He plants his little feet, takes a deep breath, and _shoves_.

The couch goes skidding across the wood floors, slamming into the far wall. There's a shriek from the kitchen, and the sound of the phone crashing to the ground. Then his sister comes racing out, eyes wide, calling, "Travis, Travis, are you—!"

She stops dead in the doorway, gaping at the couch, the scratches on the floor, the chipped plaster where the couch slammed into the wall.

Travis picks up his car and grins at her, rolling it towards her feet.

 **XXXX**

He's nine, and his Frisbee is stuck in a tree. He didn't mean to throw it so hard, but he forgot to hold back, and the little disc went flying up and up and lodged in the branches of the tree in the backyard. Since he's the one who threw it, it's Travis's job to get it.

So he climbs. And he climbs, and he climbs, the branches getting thinner and thinner and bending more under his weight. But he can see the Frisbee, a bright yellow spot in the leaves, and he's almost there.

"Travis!" William calls, sounding worried. "Maybe you should come down!"

"I'm almost there!" he calls back, stretching his fingers. Not quite enough, just a few more inches… He climbs up another branch. This one bends warningly beneath him, and he pauses, clutching the trunk, spindly and thin at this height. It's a long way down, and he can see his foster brother's face below, pale and afraid, but Travis isn't scared one bit.

He grins, looks up, and reaches for the Frisbee.

"Got it!" he shouts triumphantly, fingers closing around the plastic, but his words are drowned out by a _crack_ beneath him. The branch snaps under his feet and he falls, falls, falls.

He hits the ground hard, hard enough he thinks he blacks out for a little bit because when he blinks again his foster mom is standing there with tears in her eyes and the paramedics are leaning over him.

Travis sits up. "What happened?" But no one says anything, staring at him with shocked, empty looks on their faces, and Travis looks up and up and up at the tree, at how far he fell, and he blinks and says, very quietly, "Oh."

He didn't feel a thing. He's not hurt at all.

 **XXXX**

He's eleven, and he's sitting in front of the principal's office, staring at his hands. The door is open a crack; he can hear the principal telling his foster parents what happened today, how Travis was playing in gym class and broke another boy's wrist.

"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales," the principal says gently, softly, "but we don't have the facilities or resources to deal with a child like Travis."

"So what are you saying?" Ramon asks carefully. Travis clenches his hands together and strains to hear what Principal Werner will say.

The principal sighs. "I'm sorry, but if there's another…incident like this, I'm afraid I'll have to expel him."

"Expel him?" Alma gasps, sounding angry and horrified all at once. "He's in the sixth grade!"

"The student he injured is in the hospital," the principal snaps, and Travis closes his eyes against the tears that threaten to fall. After a moment, Principal Werner exhales, voice softer. "I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales, but the fact of the matter is, Travis can hurt the children around him without even thinking about it. Today was an accident. What if the next time isn't? What if he gets mad and pushes someone, or hits them? What then?"

"He wouldn't," Alma insists, and normally having her stand up for him would make Travis feel proud. Now he just feels sick. "Travis is a good boy!"

The principal sighs again. "I have to think of the safety of the other children. For now, he's simply suspended for three days. But if it happens again, he will be expelled."

Without another word, his foster parents leave the office and collect him. None of them say anything, not until they're in the car and driving home, and Travis clasps his hands in his lap and feels the tears dribble down his cheeks, despite how hard he's trying to hold them back.

"I'm sorry," he whispers quietly.

Alma turns in her seat, looking back at him. "Travis—"

"I di-didn't mean to," he chokes, the tears coming in earnest now. "We were just p-playing, and I got excited and forgot. I didn't _want_ to hurt Ricky!" And he curls his knees up and sobs and sobs, because Ricky is his _friend_ and Travis _hurt him_ , and the way Ricky had screamed—!

The car stops on the side of the road, and his foster parents get out, climb into the back with him and wrap him in their arms. "It wasn't your fault," they whisper, running their fingers through his hair, over his back, and he cries and cries until the tears run dry.

When he's finally quieted, Alma strokes the back of his neck, holding him tight in her arms. "You did nothing wrong, _mijo_ ," she murmurs. "But you must be careful. The world is not as strong as you are."

Travis nods, sniffling, and they sit there for a long time, Travis wrapped in their embrace, and he tries hard not to think about how easily he could break them if he tried.

 **XXXX**

He's sixteen, and a building just fell on his head. He's walking down the sidewalk and there's a massive rumbling above him, and the next thing he knows the entire wall explodes outward and rubble rains down. It happens—aside from New York, LA is a hotspot of superheroes and villains, causing chaos wherever they go. This is no different. And normally Travis wouldn't care.

But there's a woman with a stroller, walking in front of him, and when pieces of the building start falling she's right in the way. She screams, grabs her baby and tries to run, but there's nowhere to go—brick and steel crash in front of her, barring her path. She falls to her knees, baby tucked tight to her chest, and Travis—

Travis leaps forward, throws his body over the woman, and braces himself.

It doesn't hurt. Nothing has ever hurt him. It's merely pressure, falling across his back, trying to press him down, down, and he locks his knees and grits his teeth and refuses to bend. After a small eternity, the rubble finally stops falling, and he heaves, tossing pieces of the building from his back. He offers a hand to the woman; she stares, dumbfounded, and doesn't move.

There's another rumble above him, and then something leaps from the ruins of the building and lands heavily in the street. Slowly, Travis turns.

It's a man, a monolith of a man, eight feet tall and made of concrete and granite and Travis doesn't even know what else, other kinds of stone. The stone man stares at him.

Slowly, Travis grins. "You know," he says, stepping out of the rubble, "I was already having a bad enough day _before_ the building fell on my head. So thank you." His grin widens; he cracks his knuckles. "Thank you for this fight."

It's brutal and violent and— _exhilarating_. Because all his life Travis has had to keep himself in check, had to always hold back because what if he _hurts_ someone, what if he _breaks_ something. But now, right now, there's no need to hold back, not against a man made of stone, and for the first time in his life Travis doesn't hold back, he doesn't _have_ to hold back, and it's the best feeling in the world.

When it's all over, a man drops from the sky, glowing like the sun is hiding in his skin. Brightman, LA's first superhero himself, the face on cereal boxes and commercials, looks at the fallen stone man, and at Travis, and he smiles, and it's as brilliant as any advertisement Travis has ever seen.

"Nice work," he says, stopping in front of Travis with his hands on his hips. "You alright, kid?"

Is he alright. God, he's _better_ than alright, he's never felt better at all! That was amazing, that was the best rush he'd ever felt, that was—god, he thinks that's all he's ever wanted.

Travis swallows and does his best to act cool in front of his (literal) hero. "Yeah, I'm gold."

And Brightman laughs, a rich, warm sound, and claps his hand on Travis's shoulder, heavy and full of warmth, and says, "Alright. Good job here."

As if that's not wonderful enough, right before the hero leaves with the stone man in tow, he pauses, digs a card out of his suit. "Hey, golden boy," he calls, and Travis turns. Brightman flicks the card at him. "You ever looking for something to do, look me up. I got this little team, and I think you'd fit right in." And he smiles that billion-dollar smile again and takes off.

Travis looks down at the card in his hands, at the neat, black font spelling _League Of Superheroes_ , and he smiles.

 **XXXX**

He's twenty-six, and he's having the time of his life. During the day, he works on the police force—saving the world by catching one criminal at a time. But at night, oh, at night he dresses in gold and patrols the city, righting wrongs and stopping crime and it's _amazing_.

He loves it. Loves being part of the League, loves being surrounded by other superheroes. He loves—he loves being _himself_ , not having to hold back his strength, having to make excuses for why he's not hurt. He doesn't have to _hide_ and it's the most freeing thing in the world.

He steps into the break room, looking around. Amy curses as her hands phase out and her coffee crashes to the ground—fourth one this week. Kate tosses her coffee mug in the sink and pulls her mask on, leaping out the window and streaking off on her own patrol. Agent Coppola is over there talking to the new guy—Travis hangs back until he sees her leaving, because Agent Coppola is badass and kind of terrifying.

As soon as she's out the door, Travis slides into the vacated seat, grinning at the new agent. "Hey. David, right?"

The other man smiles back, holding out his hand. "David Paek. But you can call me Paekman, everyone does."

Travis shakes his hand and beams, and thinks there's no place he'd rather be.

 **XXXX**

He's thirty-four, and he's just heard of the new villain in town. He studies the file Director Sutton slid to him, looking at grainy street surveillance and the more HD versions of the League's own surveillance.

"Injustice," he frowns, tapping the blue-and-silver silhouette on the photo in his hand. "Wait, isn't he that guy that kept getting beat up in alleys? I thought he was harmless." Honestly, Travis figured the guy was going to get himself killed, the rate he was going, but he'd always kept that thought to himself. But seriously, a guy with no obvious powers or skills, trying to stop all of LA's criminal underbelly by himself? What other outcome could there be?

Director Sutton's lips thin. "He's been upgraded to a class C villain. Apparently our friend found himself some new tech, and he has _quite_ the grudge."

"Against…?" Travis asks, flipping through the file.

"The police," Sutton says, and Travis snorts.

"Right, so let's have the guy whose day job is a cop be the one to confront him. Okay."

"You're the one who can most probably stand up to anything his tech throws at you." Sutton leans back, laces his fingers over his belly. "The other option was Spectre, but she's still dealing with that tsunami guy in San Fran. You're the next best."

"Oh sir, you do know how to flatter a guy." Travis clasps his hand over his heart and fake-swoons, and the director shakes his head, a smile tugging his lips.

"Go on," he orders, shooing Travis out, "go do your thing." Saluting cheekily, Travis bundles up the file and makes his exit.

Time to see what Injustice is all about.

 **XXXX**

He's thirty-four and a half, and he's pissed. Not for any particular reason—it's just been a shitty day. He spent most of last night chasing Injustice through the streets, only for the guy to get away at the last second (the vigilante is damn slippery considering he doesn't seem to have any powers). Then, on two hours of sleep, he spent all day running back and forth across town, chasing lead after lead that didn't amount to anything. And _then_ he got home and realized he hadn't done laundry in ten days and was out of clean clothes. So here he is, in the Laundromat, pissed and frustrated and wanting to just crash for about twenty hours straight.

There's a downside to this whole superhero thing, and it's that he spends most of his nights chasing idiots and bad guys around the city. Which was fine when he was in his twenties, but he's gotten to the point where it kind of sucks.

Travis groans quietly, dropping his head in his hands. Maybe he'll call out tonight. Can he do that? Superheroing is just like any other job, right? Surely he can just say he's not coming in tonight, so sad, see you tomorrow night.

The bell above the door rings, and habit makes him look up, a cop's need to know his surroundings combined with a superhero's constant vigilance. It's just a girl, though, a redhead with a laundry basket on her hip and her free hand waving vigorously as she talks. Travis automatically classifies her as _cute, too young for you, harmless._

Then her companion walks in, and Travis perks up. Oh, hello, this guy is _nice,_ especially with the cut of those jeans. And he's cute, too, in a totally different way than the girl, cute like a _fox_ and Travis would _love_ to get to know Mr. Foxy a little better. But Travis, he's good at reading body language, and Mr. Fox is closewith the redhead, close enough they've probably got something going on, which is just so sad.

Still, Travis takes in his fill of the cute blonde, because it's not illegal to look. All of a sudden, the blonde looks up, meets Travis's gaze dead-on, and it's too late to pretend he _wasn't_ scoping so he just smiles, his standard, charming all-purpose smile that's gotten him out of many an awkward situation in the past.

Mr. Fox flushes and walks into a dryer.

Travis bites his lip to keep from laughing and turns his attention back to his clothing, watching the blonde from the corner of his eye.

He's still exhausted, and the past twenty-four hours kind of sucked, but he's feeling much better now.

 **XXXX**

He's thirty-six, and he's just been dumped. It's not the first time this has happened, he's been dumped many times before, but this is the first time it's affected him quite so much. This is the first time someone else has meant so much to him.

Travis sits on the bench at the laundromat, watching the front door and hoping, despite everything, despite Wes not coming the last few weeks, that Wes will still walk inside.

It's not like he can even blame Wes, not really. For god's sake, Wes was caught in an explosion that destroyed Travis's trailer, of _course_ the man would need some space. And besides, Wes has his issues with the cops. Travis understands. The whole Anthony Padua situation is fucked up—he can't blame Wes for how he feels. And superheroes, well, they're just superpowered cops in spandex, in a way. Hell, they're worse, in some ways—when a superhero screws up, it's not just one person that dies.

" _And people die!"_

Travis frowns, thinking back. An awards ceremony in front of city hall, and the first sight of smoke had made him groan. He'd been annoyed and frustrated and he'd thrown his hands in the air and demanded to know what the hell Injustice's problem was.

And Injustice had stood there, voice breaking, and given him the kind of truth that came from the depths of his soul.

" _My problem is that everyone holds the LAPD up as the paradigm of justice, and they're not! They let criminals roam the streets, find the easiest solution to a problem, and people die!"_

Travis sits up, thinking furiously, trying to remember where he's heard that before, not just that sentiment but _those exact words,_ where—

And it comes to him, in a flash that leaves him cold. A quiet dinner, just the two of them, and he'd asked why Wes hated the police, and Wes had looked down at his hands and said, _"The system is broken. It doesn't protect innocents the way it should, and people die."_

"Oh my god," he whispers, and wonders if this is the same sort of feeling Wes had when he learned Travis's secret identity, this awful, sinking horror that left him chilled to the bone, that made him feel sick to his stomach.

He thinks about it, compares the two side by side in his mind, and the similarities are there, in body and size and the way they move. This whole time, _this whole time_ it had been right in front of him.

Wes is Injustice, and suddenly everything makes a lot more sense.

He slumps against the wall, empty and shaken in a way that has nothing to do with being dumped, and stares blankly at the front door, _knowing_ with absolute certainty that Wes isn't going to walk through.

He really can't blame him.

 **XXXX**

He's older now, but not by much, and he is hopelessly in love. Every morning he wakes up and presses a kiss to Wes's lips, a bright good morning. Every evening, right before he pulls on his mask, he does the same thing, leans over and drops a kiss square on Wes's mouth, just because he can. Wes always rolls his eyes, but Travis can always see the tiniest hint of a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

Wes rarely does anything back, because he isn't a huge fan of PDA and tends to shrink in on himself when too many eyes are watching. But that's alright, because he shows his affection in a thousand other ways when they're alone, just the two of them.

It's not always easy. They get into fights, or pull away from each other, drifting in hurt, angry orbits. Wes isn't always in the best place emotionally, and he's learning how to work through his feelings constructively. Travis is learning how to deal with Wes, and how to work through his own feelings in a different way—this is the first time he's ever felt like this about someone, and sometimes he can't breathe for the anxiety and fear that fills him.

He's always been invulnerable, but that's only ever been on the outside. Inside, it's a whole different story.

But they have Kendall, and Paekman, and, when things get really rough, Dr. Ryan, so they always drift back into each other's spaces once more. It's not perfect, it's not easy, but it's worth it.

"I love you," he says out of the blue, and Wes pauses and looks at him. Travis just smiles and says, "I do, you know. I really, really do."

And Wes smiles and goes kind of soft around the edges, and this is what Travis loves, when Wes lets his guard down and shows him all the things he doesn't let anyone else see, because it's just the two of them here and that's always been more than enough.

"I love you too," Wes says. Then he tosses Travis's mask to him and chides, "Go, go, or you're going to be late already."

Before he pulls on the mask and becomes Golden Boy once more, he crosses the room and presses his lips to Wes's.

Wes sighs softly, leaning into the kiss for a moment, before pulling back with a stern scowl. "You're going to be _late_ ," he scolds, and Travis laughs and says, "Yeah, yeah," and heads for the door.

He's grinning as he pulls his mask on, and there's this swelling in his chest that makes him feel like he can do anything, anything in the world.

Nothing he's ever done as a superhero can compare, and he's sure nothing ever will, and Travis is totally okay with that.

 **OOOO**

 _ **The Only Difference**_ **was always Wes's story, and Wes and Travis's love story. But once I finished it I realized I still had a little bit more to tell, specifically Travis's story. I'm sorry about the ending, I always suck at endings.**

 **As far as I know this is the end of this series, but who can ever really say with these things. For now, consider it done.**

 **Anyway, let me know what you thought, I'd love to hear from you. Comments, reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

 **Until next time~!**


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